


Horses Are Big Dogs

by sherbal



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Armstrong and Miller Show
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 07:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherbal/pseuds/sherbal
Summary: [VERY IMPORTANT]Guys, before you read this, you would want to see this Armstrong and Miller sketch which is a brilliant parody of Holmes/Watson.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eYosZDMIpY4





	1. The adventure of the uneasy encounter

**Author's Note:**

> [VERY IMPORTANT]  
> Guys, before you read this, you would want to see this Armstrong and Miller sketch which is a brilliant parody of Holmes/Watson.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eYosZDMIpY4
> 
> This is basically an "encounter your ex on the streets". These two guys are such remarkable actors that they did the painful embarrassed facial and verbal expressions, awkward body languages so great!
> 
> And I found this amazing little piece of "fan fiction" in their book "The Armstrong and Miller". I typed it out and put it in chapter 1 so you can see what I'm talking about. The ex-thing really interests me and I decided to have a go on this.
> 
> My work will be in chapter 2 and the following chapters.
> 
> Have fun!

[This chapter is from the "Armstrong and Miller" book. I don't own it.]

 

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My practice was busier than ever and its demands absorbed all my attention. Homes — who loathed every form of society with his whole bohemian soul — remained in our old lodgings in Baker Street, doubtless buried among his dusty books and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition.

 

From time to time I heard tell of some vague account of his doings — not that I had the slightest interest in any of them. There was the summons to St Petersburg in the case of the Ivory Elephant. Or his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Enniskillen Kipper. Or even the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully, hushing up for the Vatican.

 

One night (it was the thirteenth of April to be precise) I just happened to be passing — completely accidentally— 221b Baker Street. I paused to untie my shoelace — spending an extra minute untying and retying my other shoe lace just to make sure it, too, wouldn’t come undone — only to glance up and see Holmes’ tall, spear figure pass twice, a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. Je looked like he was lonely, perhaps regretting the fact that he now lived on his own, something he must have felt particularly keenly given that I had taken uo rooms with another gifted detective — one Emmett Torrance.

 

Squatting there — behind a pillar box simple to keep our of wind —i thought it would be amusing to play a trick on Holmes, given how notoriously lacking his sense oof humor could so often be, I reached for a handful of gravel and threw it at his study window. After a moment, the sash flew up.

 

“i know it’s you, Watson.”

 

I said nothing, pressing my back tight against the cast iron railing.

 

“You’re such a predictable creature.”

 

There was a pause in which I said nothing.

 

“What’s the matter? Has Torrance been finally incarcerated for terminal stupidity?”

 

“Now who’s being predictable?” I couldn’t help but reply. There was another testy pause.

 

“Well come in if you’re coming. I’ve told Mrs Hudson to expect you, given the date,” he added drily. “life in Belgravia clearly suits you. You’ve put in eight-and-a-half pounds.”

 

“Eight,” I retorted. For some reason I felt myself blush.

 

“I see I’ve touched a raw nerve.” He said, as he stoked the dying fire, the slightest grin playing around his narrow lips. “not getting the exercise you once did? Fieldwork not really Torrance’s thing?”

 

“Don’t start,” I said, finding myself drawn to my old familiar chair to the right of the hearth.

 

We ate supper in a desultory silence which — eventually — Holmes broke.

 

“Why are you here, Watson? Hmmm?”

 

“You asked me in. Why do you think I’m here?”

 

Homes put down the salt cellar he had been shaking aimlessly over his game pie.

 

“Because it is in the nature of desire to want what you haven’t got,” he said cooly.

 

I flashed him a look.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He apologized, before swiftly changing the subject. “i have a new case. A stolen racehorse. You always loved the races. Why not come with me? Tomorrow?”

 

“I must leave,” I said, standing up. “Emmett is waiting. We have an investigation to review.”

 

Surprising me, Holmes’ hand snaked out and grasped mine.

 

“So much pain. Scratch an inch — my dearest Watson — a fraction of an inch and you’re in it. Its nothing to bring it to mind, is it? Nothing.”

 

“Fuck off, Holmes,” I ejaculated, “you pompous, self-regarding shit.” And I left, making my way out into the cold spring night.


	2. How I met Torrance

After six years of living with Sherlock Holmes and seven months without him, I still couldn’t deny one surprising yet reasonable fact that I was once deeply in love with this wonderful man. Maybe not wonderful; fatheaded, pompous, abominable might be the word I’m trying to use.

 

Who the hell does he think he is to treat me like that?

 

There was simply no way to endure the life under the same roof with him after what happened. So I left 221B Baker Street with my head held high and my pride wounded.

 

After my courageous move, I hadn’t seen Holmes for about two months until our totally unintentional encounter in the pub called “the Blackhorse” that we often used to go for a pint when we were together. I mean, when we lived together.

 

I, of course, did what a gentleman should do after what the man did to me. I hid behind the Times and did not confront him other than glance over the rim of the newspaper to see if he had left already.

 

He ordered a drink at the bar and took it to a table on the other side of the room. It looked like he was expecting someone. How dare he blank me completely and have the gut to meet other people in here? Who the devil he think he is? The Queen? I thought I’m supposed to be, in fact, the “queen”.

 

I got up and came to sit at the bar and that was when I met Torrance, my new roommate, with whom I’m now happily taking lodgings in Eustace Road.

 

Emmett Torrance is a man with, um, I wouldn’t go so far as “dangerous intellectual”, however, he really isn’t bright in the brain department. He was questioning the barman about the hygiene of the pub since the poor man asked him if he’d like his martini “dirty”. To be honest, he made quite a scene. And clearly, this drew Holmes’ attention as well.

 

Therefore I gladly helped Torrance out and we soon became mates. I’m sure he only just got to know this drink from the American motion pictures. He was looking for a new apartment and asked if I’d like to be a fellow lodger with him. Of course, I said yes since I was living in one shabby boarding house at the moment.

 

Holmes must have seen me talking and laughing and having a good time with Torrance at the bar. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life when I heard Torrance’s anecdote about his recent case. That’s brilliant. Torrance’s also a detective. Not a consulting one. But a true, self-employed, good-hearted one unlike someone who complained about the sunny weather in late November. Who the deuce in the world would frown at a warm sunny day in late November?

 

What made me even more cheerful was the stern disapproving look on Holmes’ face.


End file.
